Beauties of the Beast (The Yellow Hoods, #4): Steampunk meets Fairy Tale

by Adam Dreece

He shrugged again.

  “You’re not telling me something,” she said, her instincts unsettled.

  Remy put his hand on the hilt of his sword. “I’m insulating you. I think we’ve got someone screwing things up, but I don’t know who. If you go around asking too many questions, it could lead to even more disorder and distrust. Anyway, you have plenty to deal with. The water pumps broke this morning. I think it was sabotage.”

  Christina sighed. “Ever get that feeling like the whole sky is just going to come falling down?”

  “Lately, a lot.”

  Every minute of the four days Christina had been back in Kar’m had served to grind her down even further. There were arguments around every corner, and, while she loved Remy dearly, it was clear that she shouldn’t have left him in charge. He was an odd mix of stubborn bear and cuddly cub, vigorously supporting the people he liked and dodging those he didn’t.

  Her days were filled with people asking her if they could speak to her for a moment, and she was always being called away to solve supposed thefts or acts of sabotage. People were seeing ghosts all about, and their worst natures were taking over. Despite their best efforts, she and her leadership team couldn’t figure out where it was coming from.

  She was thankful that Tee, Elly and Mounira had made themselves scarce. The last thing she wanted to do was take her frustration out on the kids in a moment of weakness. She’d given Tee access to her secure underground laboratory, and was happy to see the kid regularly passing the guards and heading downstairs. She’d seen Mounira outside learning to fight. Her mechanical arm was quickly becoming a real part of her.

  Christina stopped herself from knocking on the lab’s door, realizing that it was hanging on for dear life to the frame. Canny was crouched in the middle of his blown apart lab, searching for something. He was surrounded by pieces of tables and chairs, and chunks of metal were stuck in the ceiling, each of the stone walls and even the floor. Shreds of burnt paper were everywhere.

  “It’s gone,” he said, standing and rubbing his eyes. His bald head had spots of soot, and his spectacles sat at a crooked angle. He glared at Christina, his brown eyes filled with pain and anguish. “The formula notes I had for what we needed to do next are burnt up. It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t work. It’s a huge waste of time. I should not have tried. It was a stupid idea, an idea you put in my head,” he said, talking about the rocket-pack.

  Christina tried to approach him but he moved away. “You had a setback. Look—”

  “There’s no way to create something that can fly,” he muttered, shaking his head. “There’s no way, do you understand? Friends of mine are dead because of this. Because of you. You fed my hopes, and look what that got me.”

  “The Fare’s airships are real,” replied Christina, her voice firm and steady. “We need—”

  “I don’t care!”

  “Stop yelling!” commanded Christina. “I’m not deaf. You had a setback, that’s all.”

  “No, we’re done,” he replied, gazing about at the wreckage. “I’m done. No more of this.” He pointed at various scraps.

  “What is everybody’s problem around here!? You’ve only been at this, what, three weeks? Canny, it’s not like you to give up. I believe in you.”

  His head lowered, like a growling wolf getting ready to pounce. “But I don’t believe in you.”

  Christina was taken aback. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’ve been more focused on the children of foreigners over what’s been happening here. You were gone, you left us, only to dump a crippled girl here, and leave us again! Now you’re back, and for four days, for four days I haven’t seen you once. If I’m working on such an important project, I figured you’d make the time to come and see what was happening.”

  “Canny, look—”

  “No! You look. For too long you’ve been playing fast and loose with our ways. You’ve been letting in anyone claiming to be an Abominator from some part of the world, anywhere, they can just make it up. You even let in that Enderian idiot, Henry Blair. He’s not even Enderian, he’s obviously from Inglea! You let a man who is an obvious liar into our community, into our home.” He took a breath and shook his head. “The kid, Alex, that he brought with him? He’s not even his nephew. These little things, they were cracks. Now we’ve got real-world stuff turning those cracks into chasms. All because you wanted to play mommy.”

  Christina ground her teeth. “You’re on a fine edge, Canny. I recommend you back off.”

  “No,” he said, pointing sharply at her. “How long are you going to be here this time? Just long enough to see things start to boil over, and then you’ll run?”

  Rubbing her thumbs over her fists, Christina tried to steady herself. “I’ve had enough of this. When did you get so tribal? Maybe you’d see what Blair had to offer if you didn’t block him at every opportunity. I heard you and your little friends have bullied everyone even considering to help that man, or anyone else you don’t like.”

  “Little friends? Is that what we are to you now, little people?” asked Canny, his face red, his eyes burning.

  Christina took another deep breath. She’d led these people for a long time, and Canny always seem to represent the everyman. His opinions were rarely offside, and arguing with him was, in a way, arguing with everyone. He was well respected, and despite his introverted nature, was always at their social events. “What’s got you scared, Canny? This isn’t you,” she asked.

  “You were our rock. But for the past several months, you’ve been distracted and there have been consequences for that. You’ve left Remy in charge! Remi, who couldn’t even answer Luther’s question about whether or not we were suddenly supporting the Tub because of the bombings. Supporting the Tub? How much of an idiot do you have to be to not immediately answer no, we’re remaining neutral as we always have. You bringing those kids here has only made things worse!”

  Christina hung her head, her short blond hair hiding her closed eyes. “Can we back up? Where are we with the flying ideas?”

  He gestured about the lab. “What do you think? It’s over. It’s a good thing that we aren’t siding with the Tub, because this weird new non-Pieman Fare group has no reason to ever pay us a visit. So who cares? We don’t need to fly. Let the rest of the world worry, it’s their problem.”

  “That’s ignorant,” said Christina sharply.

  “No, that’s reality. It’s cold and mean and real. I’m going to have everything, including the new prototypes, thrown out. Tomorrow I’m going to clean my lab and work on something that actually matters.”

  She stood there, blankly.

  “Please, Christina, we need you to do your job. You’re supposed to be leading us, so lead. Stop playing with children.”

  She wished she hadn’t lost her whirly-bird, or that she had shared it rather than having kept it secret. With slumped shoulders, she turned and left.

  Several minutes later, a short, pony-tailed man walked in. “How did it go? Did you say everything we discussed?”

  “I did,” said Canny. “I think I went too far, though. She’s a good person. I honestly don’t think all of this is her fault.”

  “Hey, don’t do that. Don’t bring this on you. You did the right thing. She needed to be taken down a notch. All high and mighty, who does she think she is, the queen?”

  Canny winced. “She’s not like that.”

  “No, you just don’t see her like that, but trust me, she is. I saw it from the moment I stepped foot in this place six months ago. If we hadn’t become such fast friends, I’d have left on her account. Don’t worry, little brother. Soon she’ll be gone, and none of this will matter.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Max'ed Out

  Franklin cursed once again as a quill fumbled out of his shaking hands. Trying to rescue it, he knocked a bottle of ink to the floor. “Tee, I will make you pay for this,” he growled as he crumpled up the large sheet of paper and threw it in the massive pi
le he’d created behind him. His jacket, vest, socks and shoes were somewhere in the pile as well.

  At first, the language and terms used on the plans seemed to decipher themselves right before his eyes. But then everything stopped. At each four hour interval, marked by Simon checking up on him, Franklin’s confidence eroded even further. He could feel his deadline rapidly approaching.

  He pulled out a pocket watch from his grey pants pocket and swallowed hard. There was only half an hour left. Twenty eight fleeting minutes, to be precise. As doubt and fear started to run circles in his mind, he got up to walk around the study again. He ran his fingers along the books in the endless stream of bookcases.

  Imitating Ruffo, he said, “Come on Franky, you’re a smart kid. Come on, focus.” Then, pretending to be Stefano, he continued, “Yeah. What you need, kid, is a kick in the bottom—” He stopped. “He’d never say bottom. Probably bum? I don’t know. Doesn’t matter, this isn’t helping.” He hated the feeling of impending doom. His heart was racing and his whole body was sweaty.

  He stared at Simon’s locked inner-office door. It was tall and white, with ornate carvings that made it look like a door within a door. The fake outer door looked huge, and he felt small.

  He rolled his shoulders and gazed at the floor. “What have I done?” His leg spasmed as if adding its own two cents. He dragged himself back to the workbench and sat down on the stool. Reluctantly, he stared at the giant sheet of design plans. Sighing heavily, he said, “I just wanted to be great. Like Klaus. Like Tee’s going to be.” He ran his fingers through his sweaty hair. “I don’t want to be a nobody… I don’t want to be like father. I just want to have that sweet taste of—”

  Franklin stopped himself and slid off the stool. There was a thought on the edge of his mind, something teetering back and forth. “Sweet… sweet…” he glanced back and forth between his notes and the plans. “Sweet… wait, those vials and bottles in Klaus’ lab… Hmm, this…” he said stabbing at one of the sheets, “this is about a chemical reaction! It isn’t the design of a real machine, this is just Klaus explaining how the chemicals work together. He just… he thinks in terms of machines.”

  Franklin quickly laid the plans on the floor, then carefully stood up on the workbench and looked at them all together. His eyes went wild and an excited grin grew from despair. “It’s… it’s got to be.” Hoping down, he tapped a formula. “This is a sugar, it’s a solution and… why does he have it? It’s… it’s got to be a catalyst. Of course, it allows the reaction to happen at room temperature, and that provides the energy to the cart when you hold the handles. Yig! I solved it!”

  Just then, he heard the study door open and the familiar voice of the high conventioneer. “Time’s up, Watt,” said Simon.

  “I solved it!” screamed Franklin triumphantly, jumping up and down. “I solved it! Solved it, solved it!”

  Simon’s footfalls stopped. Franklin waited expectantly, but after several seconds, he went looking for Simon.

  He found the high conventioneer staring at the floor, thinking. He was tapping his foot as he worked through something.

  “Sir?” asked Franklin, unable to read the man.

  Simon was dressed in black and grey scholarly robes, a white, high-collar shirt and dark pants. His hair was neat and washed, but his face looked drained. He glanced up at Franklin. “You have thirty seconds. What was the answer?”

  “It’s, ah…” Franklin felt a lump in his throat, and his body exploded in sweat. “Ah…”

  Simon whipped out a pocket watch and shook his head. “Twenty seconds.”

  “It’s sugar. A… a type of sugar. I think. The sheets didn’t make sense because they aren’t for a real machine—they’re just the way that Klaus represented a chemical reaction. It’s how he thinks.”

  The pocket watch returned to its home and Simon glared at the boy. He shook his head in disappointment. “Of course it is. How could I have been so blind? It’s obvious. Completely obvious.” He turned to leave.

  Franklin was confused. “Where are you going? Don’t you want—”

  “I’ll be back later. Alfrida will be in shortly to take you to your room. Get cleaned up. Show up this afternoon only if you want to learn what it means to be a conventioneer. Work will be intense, but rewarding. And I’ll arrange for you to see your father. That is, unless you don’t want to change the world?”

  A giddy excitement spread throughout Franklin’s body. Just as Simon was about to go out of view, he remembered. “What about my money?” he dared to ask.

  Simon turned on his heel. “Where are the steam engine plans?”

  Franklin twiddled his fingers nervously.

  Maxwell Watt gazed about at the floor surrounding his comfortable high-backed chair. For the past several months, the chair, more than the rest of the two floor townhouse, had been his home. For a gilded cage, he couldn’t complain. Furthermore, if he were honest with himself, the limited amount of interaction with the outside world was greatly appreciated.

  He glanced around at the piles of papers and books he’d amassed. As quickly as one was removed, it seemed like there were two to take its place. There was barely any wooden floor showing within three feet of the chair. Some of the piles were items of personal interest, others solutions to some of the fun little puzzles that Simon St. Malo had sent his way. “Hmm, I should probably send some of those books back,” he muttered to himself. “I can’t imagine they’ll let me keep ordering them from the royal library infinitum.”

  When he’d first arrived, he’d been unable to think about anything but the safety of his son, Franklin. Every time he was interrogated, he’d ask about his son and then shortly after, pass out. Finally, one day Simon had shown up with a letter from a spy in Herve. After reading the letter, Maxwell had thanked him and to his surprise, Simon had moved him immediately into his current accommodations. He’d even apologized to Maxwell for his ill treatment and told him he’d been unaware of what had been going on.

  Maxwell had become so comfortable that when some of the other inventors had asked him to join them in making escape plans, he’d ignored them. Instead, he prefered to continue working on the puzzles Simon provided or reading. He thought it a shame that the others weren't seeing that Simon was actually a much better man than they'd given him credit for. He was certain that when the political winds died down, Simon would release him without question or harm.

  Maxwell carefully exchanged what was in his lap for a pile closest to the right side of his chair. Masterfully, he managed to avoid disturbing any other piles or spilling the sizable stack of papers he was trying to put down. “Let’s see, when’s this one due?” He scanned the sheet, finding the due date already circled twice. “That’s, what… in two days?” He glanced at the calendar on the wall, almost lost amidst dozens of tacked up papers. Well, might as well get started. Doesn’t look like that much of a problem to solve.”

  Wiggling himself comfortably into place, Maxwell took a fresh pencil to chew on from the set that had been provided that morning. He was going to have to find out how to get some when he got home, as they were far better than the quills he was used to working with. Just as he started to tap into the part of his imagination where he did his best thinking, there was a knock at the door.

  Maxwell glared at the dark brown door. Grumbling, he wormed his way through his piles and put his work down. “You people always find the perfect time to interrupt me. What is it you want now?” he muttered.

  He smoothed his thin, light-brown hair and adjusted his glasses. With everything now ready, he opened the door. His mouth fell open in shock.

  “Hello, Father,” said Franklin, with a half-smile.

  “Wha… wha—what?” he stammered.

  “Watt, actually,” replied Franklin smugly. “Have you already forgotten?”

  “Is this for real?” Maxwell asked, glancing up and down the corridor, surprised to see no guards about. “You’re by yourself? Are you really here, or have I los
t my marbles?”

  Franklin bit his cheek for a moment before replying. “I can’t speak to the marbles, Father, but it is me. In the flesh. Might I come in?” He’d rarely seen his father so undone.

  Maxwell rubbed his hands together. “You being here can only mean one thing—we’re escaping! Wow, I hadn’t expected that. Mind you, I did send you to Nikolas Klaus. That old madman, I knew I could count on him! So, are we off?”

  The contrast to how Tee and her family worked couldn’t have been more stark for Franklin. His father was being classically Ingleash, focusing on the important points of the moment first, afterwards they’d likely share a social moment of concern. He wanted to convince himself that it was clearly superior to the mushy Frelish ways, but he couldn’t. He felt disappointment in his father, at his selfish thoughts. Why isn’t he more concerned with me? Franklin wondered. “What? Escaping? No,” he replied.

  “But the lack of guards, I mean, we could make a break for it. We could be back home by autumn.”

  Franklin pointed. “They’re just at the end of the corridor. They know I’m here. They let me in.”

  “Oh,” replied Maxwell, his giddy excitement deflated.

  “I’ve been granted permission to see you,” said Franklin. “That’s something, isn’t it?”

  Maxwell worked himself up to a decisive nod, finally bringing his gaze up from the floor to look at his son. He smiled and tapped his son on the arm. “It’s good to see you.”

  Franklin hated to admit it, but he appreciated the sentiment, even if it felt like an after-thought. “It’s good to see you too, Father.”

  Maxwell stepped aside and let him in. Franklin looked at the chair and the small kitchenette to its left, the stairs behind it that likely lead up to a bedroom. “This isn’t the dungeon prison that I expected to find you in.”

  “Yes, well,” said Maxwell, glancing about, “A cage is a cage, but I do have to say that this one has some respectable amenities, ordering any book from their royal library being my favorite. Puzzles come second. Simon sends them, I think. Innocuous little puzzles to keep one’s mind agile. Very considerate, really.